Underworld
by syfygal
Summary: When you can see the sky, you don't give a second thought as to what lies beneath the ground you're standing on. An accidental discovery traps Scott and Stiles deep underground…prisoners of an ancient civilization that shouldn't exist. There is something primeval stirring in the dark; and it hasn't been fed in millions of years...


_**When you can see the sky, you don't give a second thought as to what lies beneath the ground you're standing on. An accidental discovery traps Scott and Stiles deep underground…prisoners of an ancient civilization that shouldn't exist. There is something primeval stirring in the dark; and it hasn't been fed in millions of years…**_

 **HORROR/MYSTERY  
RATED M – **_**Violence (child/teenage abuse and torture), coarse language, supernatural themes and horror  
**_

* * *

 **UNDERWORLD**

 _ **Part 1 – The Fall**_

 _ **They say the best discoveries are often made by mistake.  
As it happens, the teenagers certainly weren't looking for trouble when they made their discovery. **_

_**All it took was a hole in the ground – one that looked deceptively shallow, until they fell down it.**_

 _ **The shock pulled their breath away and noiselessly, they tumbled, scraped and bashed their way down – unable to find each other in the infinite darkness.**_

 _ **When they finally hit the bottom, there was nothing…  
**_

* * *

There is no light. Are his eyes even open?

Scott blinks – yes, they're open.

Blind? Probably not – with his enhanced sight, he can make out shapes in the darkness.

The ground under his back is hard and uneven. He breathes through his nose and it scrunches in distaste at the stench.

A metallic smell – more than a hint of copper.

Is it blood?

He sits up quickly, assaulted by dizziness and a dull throb in his skull. Did he fall?

There's something warm dripping into his left eye. He reaches up to touch it, wincing as his fingers brush the wetness.

Yes – there's blood, but not just his own. His thoughts are scattered like leaves in the wind. Scott sniffs again. There's another scent mingled with his. Familiar, recognizable – he has smelt it before, and he doesn't like it one bit.

Concentrate! He scolds himself, rising slowly.

The smell…it belongs to someone he loves…Mother?

He shakes his head, because it doesn't smell anything like Melissa McCall. He knows – she's cut herself plenty of times chopping vegetables.

Allison?

A deep sadness rises within him and clenches at his heart because, no.  
It can't be Allison.  
Allison is dead.

Scott takes another deep breath through his nose, and he is frustrated now. He must have hit his head pretty hard, because he should know instantly who the smell belongs to.

More copper; too much of it, and something else…something chemical. He listens now, because he can hear another heartbeat. It's sluggish and irregular, but thankfully present. Scott thinks he knows who it is now. Why it took him so long to figure it out astounds him.

He tries to call the name that belongs to this person he loves, but he's so thirsty he can barely speak. The werewolf clears his throat and tries again.

'Stiles?' He croaks, finally stumbling to his feet. 'Stiles, buddy?'

There's a painful hitch in the other breath, and Scott is terrified – because he is a werewolf and can already feel the wound on his head closing. Stiles is a human, and can't heal at all.

Scott reaches into his pocket and finds his cell phone, hoping that it didn't break during the fall.

He clicks the lock button and he is almost blinded by the harsh light of the home screen. Scott winces and squints until his sensitive eyes can get used to the glare.

It only takes a minute and he can see again. There's a crack across the screen, but other than that, the phone seems to have escaped unscathed. Scott thumbs through his apps to find the flashlight, because at the moment – he can't see past the rectangle of light. He ignores the fact that there's no signal.

Once found, he activates it – and almost wishes he hadn't, because he can now see that they are well and truly fucked.

He'll worry about that later. For now – he's more focused on Stiles, because his friend is never that still.

Scott's hand is trembling as he approaches the other teen; streaked liberally with dirt and blood. His face is lax, mouth partially open and it looks like he's having trouble breathing. Thankfully, it doesn't look like he's in any danger of dying – but if there is one thing his mother taught him, it was to never underestimate the severity of a medical situation. Step one – check the extent of the victim's injuries. He takes a shuddering breath, because it's Stiles, and Stiles is his brother.

He passes the flashlight over Stiles' face. Underneath the dirt, it's paler than usual and there's a shit-ton of blood smeared down his cheek, like it's been painted on.

He moves on, lifting him slightly and running his fingers down the back of his neck – checking for breaks.

Sighing in relief, Scott thinks the boy has escaped a neck injury.

Scott doesn't even need to touch Stiles' arm to know that he has a dislocated shoulder, but he doesn't want to reset it quite yet.

The werewolf unbuttons the plaid shirt that frames his friends wiry torso, lifts up the under shirt and winces. The bruises look painful, but they're not dark enough to indicate internal bleeding. It's the wide gash on his stomach that concerns him, because it's still weeping and caked with dirt. As Scott continues his investigation, he has to squash the panic down once again, because there's another gash – from thigh to calf - and it's absolutely pissing blood.

Scott drops his phone and swears; clamping his hands over the wound and feeling sick as the wetness coats his fingers in seconds.

There's a moan that slowly increases in pitch as Scott holds the flesh together, leeching as much of the pain as he can manage, but it isn't enough. Stiles manages to turn his head before puking, his eyes screwed shut so tightly that more blood escapes the wound on his head.

'Shit,' Scott hisses, unzipping his hoodie with a shaking hand and shrugging it off. He rolls it up length ways and jams it against the wound in his leg.

Stiles screeches and throws up again, eyes still firmly closed.

'Easy dude, easy…can you look at me?' Scott asks, repositioning the boy so his head rests upon his thigh. Stiles grunts in response and makes a valiant effort to peel his lids apart. Slowly, they open – irises slightly crossed and pupils unevenly dilated.

'Scotty…' He slurs - mouth barely moving. He swallows thickly and licks his lips. 'Ahh…fuck.'

Scott can't help but agree.

He looks down at his friend and for a moment, he's transported back to the night Allison died – he held her almost exactly like he was holding Stiles. That moment had broken his heart, but losing Stiles would kill him.

His eyes burn, and Scott realizes he's about to cry…but he can't, because Stiles will be fine. Stiles wouldn't leave him.

'Wh't hppn'd?' His brother mumbles, almost incoherently – not a vowel to be heard in his jumbled speech.

Scott rubs the back of his head, gently pulling more black tendrils of pain into his own body. 'We fell down a hole.'

Stiles chuckles wetly. ''S a deep fkn' hole,' he manages.

Scott sighs. 'Yeah, you're telling me bro…' he pauses. 'Your shoulder is dislocated…I need to pop it back into place.'

The boy groans. He's had dislocated limbs before – even with no other injuries, the experiences were not pleasant.

Scott lifts and turns him slightly, almost hugging, grips his shoulder and bicep, rolling slowly.

He has heard Stiles scream before, but never this badly. It pierces him, but he blocks it out – listening for the pop.

It's done. Stiles is gasping for breath and sweating like he's just run laps. Scott looks at his face and panics again.

His eyes are open, but rolled back – like he's on the verge of passing out. He can't let that happen. The concussion is too bad and there's so much blood that Scott fears he may not wake up if he loses consciousness now.

'Stay with me, bud,' he urges, teeth clenched as Stiles continues to pant. Lids flutter – dangerously close to sliding shut, but Scott is insistent.

He gives Stiles a shake and smacks him firmly on the cheek to gain his attention.

The boy blinks slowly, struggling to focus – but after some gentle coaxing on Scott's part, he manages to stay awake.

'I hate you,' he groans, and Scott is relieved because Stiles is acting a bit more like himself.

Satisfied that his friend is a little more cognizant, Scott shines his flashlight 360 and almost swallows his heart.

'Shit,' he hisses – following the beam around a second time to make sure he's not hallucinating. Unfortunately, it seems not.

They are in the middle of a cathedral of stone, so immense that his light doesn't even reach the walls or ceiling and they're on the edge of some kind of underground lake.

Scott can feel himself panicking, which is not like him – but Stiles is hurt and there is a very real danger that his wounds could become infected in this environment.

There is no visible way out – even the hole they fell down is too far up for either to manage, even on top of their game.

Scott catches Stiles' gaze, dark eyes blown wide in panic. He's seen what Scott saw, and by the rapid rise and fall of his narrow chest, he is breathing his way into a panic attack of Epic Proportions.

'Stiles dude – calm down. _Breathe._ ' Scott soothes, holding his friend steady. He doesn't need this right now.

The platitudes don't work this time. The Werewolf can hear the increasing rate of Stiles' heart and is powerless to stop it, because there's no lying to him now. He's seen how fucked they are and he thinks they might die down here.

In the dark.

Scott's phone is close to fully charged, but that won't last forever.

His lips are tinged blue now. Scott is still trying to calm him, but every technique he's ever used to anchor his friend is ineffective.

The werewolf is borderline hysterical, because his hoodie his drenched now – Stiles' panic is increasing his blood flow – out of the holes that shouldn't be there.

The dark eyes disappear behind fluttering lids and Stiles goes from rigid to lax in a matter of seconds.

He is unconscious and Scott is alone. 

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**Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.**


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